Wicked Wednesday: Darkness and light

I’m a dom. When I go to meet a bunch of people who also do bdsm, I’m likely to wear black: black boots with metal rings, black jeans with zips all over the place, black t-shirt, black jacket.

That’s traditional. It’s probably only thirty to forty years old, as traditions go, but I tend to go with traditions where they’re harmless. But in general I’m not an enormous fan of black or darkness.

Dr Frederick Wertham was quite right to say there was a strong fetishistic streak in comic book characters. (That’s Superman and Power Girl, by the way.)

For example I always preferred Superman to Batman; Superman’s story is about optimism and ethical issues, while Batman’s story is about poor Bruce Wayne being psychologically messed up because he saw his parents murdered in front of him.

Superman’s problem is essentially that he’s a god, and he has to work out ways of using his powers to help humanity without getting in their way too much. To me that’s more interesting and actually far more relatable that Batman’s dead-parents-bitterness problem.

Because we all have some power, and we all need to work out how to use our allocation of power to make things better.

 (Don’t get me wrong. I like the Batman mythos and I ain’t dissing Bruce Wayne. I just prefer Superman’s world. And worldview.)

Wertham’s mistake was in thinking there’s anything wrong with that. (Batman with Catwoman.)

Similarly, I’m not really interested in the problems of the traditional powers of darkness. I could never take vampires, werewolves, ghosts, demons and devils seriously. I don’t just mean that I don’t think they’re real. It’s that as story elements they seem kind of silly, rather than sexy or stylish or chilling or whatever. I can’t be scared by a vampire story or movie, because they just don’t feel real. 

Darkness, when I’m writing, tends to come in the shape of a corrupt or authoritarian politician, a racist cop, a violent husband.

Or just malign chance, like disease or car accident. 

Most of the people in stories I write, including the erotica, are well-meaning. They may get ratty, and thoughtless, but that’s because they’re under stress. Given time to relax and think, they behave better. I write that kind of interaction not because it’s a fantasy world I want to live in: it’s actually the way that most real people actually do behave. I also think it’s more interesting: the struggle people have, in trying to find and make themselves do the right thing. And conflict between people who both think they’re doing the right thing, and are well-meaning, is more interesting that struggles between “good” and “evil”. 

Once we’ve got our black gears on, all male doms think we look like this. In our dreams…

As a dom, I give control, restraint and certain kinds of pain to women who want that, to be controlled, held tight, bound, given carefully measured touches of pain, while knowing that they are loved and looked after.

That doesn’t seem to me to be “dark”, or enhanced by pretending that it is. It’s colourful, the colours of blush and arousal, which vary with different skin colours, but are seldom really “black”. Sex, and especially bdsm, is not at all monochrome. 

It’s an exchange, for love, or at least affection, and pleasure on both sides. We give each other things that the other fiercely needs, while receiving the equivalent from them.

So I don’t deal much in darkness, or in black. Except for the clothes. 

 

I’ll be back to Maddie’s saga next week. 

 

Masturbation Monday: Follow me

This is turning into a saga. The previous episode is here

 

Maires and I licked and nibbled our way down Stephanie’s thighs, she writhing slowly and smelling beautifully, headily, aroused. Eventually, when Stephanie would expect at least one tongue to touch her glorious, shiny centre, I stopped and kissed Maires.

Mouth to horizontal mouth, while Stephanie’s vertical mouth leaked, and she tried to move down the bed so her cunt touched our faces. I smacked her leg, and she stopped, making piteous, disappointed sounds. After a while, Maires stopped kissing me. She looked at me, eyebrows up, and I nodded.

Maires turned her head, and pressed forward, delicately, her mouth softly touching Stephanie’s cunt. Stephanie said, “Hooo”. 

Then Maires licked, firmly upwards, touching and tongue-bathing Stephanie’s clitoris. Stephanie’s whole body clenched, and she was silent, legs apart, abandoned, waiting for whatever we might make happen to her. 

I slid, snakelike, up the bed while Maires was busy with Stephanie’s sweet centre. I kissed her, and she opened her eyes. We smiled at each other. I said, “I’ll be fucking Maires next.” 

Stephanie nodded solemnly. A host had his responsibilities, and she knew it was Maires’s turn. She sighed, in response to something Maires was doing, then touched my face. She pulled me down to kiss her again. For a long time Stephanie was the centre of our tiny world, on my bed, having her cunt explored and kissing the man who’d just – finally, after too many years – fucked her.

I said, “but when I’m fucking Maires, I promise you’ll still feel me.” 

I know; that sounds egotistical. But we all live in a culture, and because of that culture Maires could lick Stephanie’s cunt because I was there. If I wasn’t present this wouldn’t be happening. My male presence, and I guess things about me specifically, made it possible for Stephanie to accept my girl’s tongue on her cunt, that female to female pressure. But Stephanie was having a threesome with a man, for the time being her man, not lesbian sex. From her point of view.     

I whispered, “Maires likes it if you hold her hair while she’s doing you.” And kissed her again. And a few seconds Maires made a lust noise; she was having her hair pulled, and she was serving. 

I kissed Stephanie goodbye for the time being. Maires was on her knees, her head down deep between Stephanie’s thighs. Her position was close to the one I’d enforced on Stephanie on the carpet. I clambered back until my knees were between Maires’s. I held her hips, Maires’s head still bobbing and bopping energetically, one of Stephanie’s hands in her hair.

My cock pressed forward, between her buttocks. The head touched Maires’s cunt. She was distracted, with her own duties, but she said, “Yer, ye.” I pushed forward. She said, “Ah fuck!” as I entered her. She lost her rhythm, for a few seconds.

I saw Stephanie dig her nails into Maires’s shoulders. Blood was going to be spilled, and soon. I pushed forward, into Maires in one thrust, tightly held in the most perfect world there is, wet, warm, and needing more of me. I smacked Maires’s arse, which I possessed utterly and without reservation from either of us. I said, “I’m fucking you. You’re doing Stephanie. So, follow me.”  

Maires made a sound that wasn’t a protest. It was acquiescence mixed with the knowledge that she shouldn’t take that sort of order. But she liked being given orders, and obeying, as Stephanie did. I wondered which of them would get to surrender to the other. And I pressed forward, and back, in Maires’s clasping wet cunt, riding her high and slowly. 

 

The next episode is here.

 

 

 

Books, publishers and agents: and where are the under-the-desk blowjobs?

The writer, giving good type, and laying pipe.

I’m in the slightly unusual situation of having finished three novels in the last four months. 

One of those novels contains no bdsm and very little sex, but a lot of love and death, also violence and politics, set in an antiquarian bookshop, and I don’t think I can publish it as being by that disgraceful Jerusalem Mortimer.  

I’m sending it to an agent on Monday. And they can decide what to do with my split personality writing career. 

The writer’s reward. I mean, money is good, but mostly we write for the under-the-desk blow jobs. Ask Hemingway, ask JK Rowling. Ask anyone.

The other two novels contains lots and lots, also lots, of sex and submission, and the acceptance of submission. And lots of very committed fucking.

They are true novels, in the sense that they’re about people, and the changes they go through as a result of experience.

They are also, I think, filthy hot.

People discover the most intense desires, to own or to give themselves to their lover, and to mark them or be marked by them.

And today a publisher has been given the opportunity to enrich their company and myself beyond their and my wildest dreams, as my books fly off the shelves.

As they most certainly will! 

Balzac would have said, “There goes another novel.” But he was an idiot.

I’ve been busy most of this week, This process, the writing of blurbs, synopses, and histories of my writing career, and so forth, has kept me away from blogging for most of this week. I’m sorry about that.

I like to keep my readers entertained. I believe that writers are entertainers, or we’re nothing. I believe that very seriously.

Usual services restored next week!

Masturbation Monday: Meet in the middle

In the last episode, which is here  

Stephanie and I had just fucked fairly vigorously on the carpet. I’d picked Stephanie up, carrying her in my arms, to my bed. But Maires, my girlfriend, had just had sex, or something, with a man with half his face painted red and a wooden toucan on his shoulder. Who, I’m afraid, doesn’t appear again in this story, although he did seem to be fascinating to women. Maires came into our room and congratulated us, which in practice meant mainly Stephanie, on the beauty of our orgasm noises. 

Stephanie remembered that she’d agreed with me that Maires could join us when she, Maires, was ready. But now she was embarrassed. So Maires asked her personally for her permission to join us. 

Stephanie looked up at me. I smiled at her, then had to clear my throat. “You don’t have to agree to anything you don’t want. I mentioned that it gets incredibly cuddly, if you have both me and Maires here. But all the options are good, whatever you want.” 

Stephanie’s “ernnnn” was a growl. Maires looked disappointed, and was ready to leave, but I recognised it: it was the sound my mom made, when she was about to agree to something but wanted me to know it was a big concession on her part. So I lifted her a little and kissed her. 

Stephanie laughed, with the absurdity and promise of the moment, and Maires finally relaxed. “All right,” Stephanie said. “You two fucking weirdos. Do your worst.”

I lowered Stephanie to the bed. She put her hands over her breasts and clamped her legs together. I figured she was joking. I said, “Promise it’ll be a good worst. Maires, I think you’re overdressed.” 

Stephanie slowly spread her legs, which had a hypnotic effect on me. Then she raised her knees, still spread, and pointed her toes at the ceiling. Maires said, “Holy fuck. Fuck, Stephanie. That’s fucking…” Then she shut up, and pulled her shirt over her head, and dropped it on the floor, then dropped her jeans to join the shirt. 

I joined Stephanie, with my cock poking at her hip, and smacked her bottom. She dropped her legs to the bed and looked at me, trying to be indignant. I kissed her left, nearer knee, which was red and rough and painfully abraded by our carpet fuck. “These need treatment. Maires, go and get anti-septic cream.” 

Maires hesitated. She was supposed to do as she was told when we were together. But it was the first time I’d given her a direct order in front of someone else. On the other hand, I’d just smacked Stephanie’s bottom in front of her. So she decided: she said, “Sir, then.” And she left for the bathroom, naked as she was.

Stephanie grinned at me. “You’re a bad man. Someone should spank you.” 

I kissed her. “It just doesn’t work like that. Life is unfair. And do you think I’m going to spank you, even for suggesting that?” 

Stephanie rolled over, poked her arse up, and wiggled. “Go on, then.”

I felt the invitation, and the urge to act on it.

But instead I kissed her bottom, and then her thighs. Stephanie sighed, and spread her thighs wider. I said, “All in good time. Now roll over, girl. On your back, knees up.”

Maires arrived then with Savlon and gauze. She climbed on the bed too, on Stephanie’s right side, and kissed her knee. “Poor little limb. Injured in the cause of love.” She took two pieces of gauze, squeezed out a dollop of Savlon onto each, and handed me one.

I dabbed at Stephanie’s left knee, while Maires cooed and did the same on her side. She leaned down and kissed Stephanie’s inner thigh. So I did the same.

“Obviously,” I said to Stephanie, “we intend to offer the total burns recovery care package.” It was an incredibly lame thing to say, but it did give her information.

Stephanie let her head sink back onto the pillow. She didn’t need to watch us any more. After we’d cleaned her knees, and soothed them as best we could, we gave our attention to Stephanie’s inner thighs, working our way, very, very slowly closer to her cunt.

Stephanie made a sound that was half sigh and half grunt. She was enjoying our worst. Maires bit very lightly on the inner side of Stephanie’s thigh. She looked up at me. Her eyes were bright. “Meet you in the middle.”

 

The next episode is here.

 

 

One last post on #cockygate

The patent Faleena Hopkins took out on the word “cocky”, as used in a book title, is now marked as “Cancellation pending”. 

I understand that Hopkins is now trying to find someone prepared to say that they love her “the Ball-Cocky Plumber” series, and they accidentally bought a book called something like “the Cocky Spaniel”, thinking it was one of hers. Without looking at the author’s name.

I think that’s going to be her argument against trademark cancellation. So for that and other reasons that I’m not going into here, trademark cancellation is a certainty. 

I’m pleased about this. I’m never likely to use the word “cocky” in a title or, except when I’m talking about #cockygate, in a sentence. But bullying does annoy me. 

 

Here’s Faleena Hopkins’s threatening letter to the romance writer Jamilla Jasper.

Hi Jamilla, 

My name is Faleena Hopkins, author of Cocker Brothers, the Cocky® Series. 

The Federal Trademark Commission has granted me the official registered trademark of the workmark “Cocky” in relation to romance books, no matter the font. 

Trademark Registration Number: 5447836

This is romance writer Jamilla Jasper. I know it’s irrelevant, but I think she’s quite good-looking. Update: It’s a stock photo, the rights licensed by 123RF. Oh well.

I am writing to you out of professional respect so that you may rename your book “Cocky Cowboy” which shares the same title as my book, and republish all the versions (ebook, paperback and audible) on Amazon to keep your ratings and money earned. 

My attorney at Morris Yom Entertainment Law has advised me that if I sue you, I will win all the monies you have earned on this title, plus lawyer fees will be paid by you as well.

I will do that – but I’d rather give you the option. 

[…]

Thank you,

Faleena Hopkins.

There’s real evocation of character in that letter. The mix of pious, I’m only doing this for your own good,  and the threatening, I will take all the money you earned on your book, would be good character-drawing, if she were a competent fiction writer.

In her fiction, she writes like this:

I toss the phone onto my dresser, I strip naked glancing to the mirror positioned across from my bed as I check out my body. […] I like my body looking this good, and that takes work– just like anything else worth having. 

Reflexively, my gaze flicks up next to where my favorite mirror is– the ceiling. 

As I pull boxer briefs down my thighs and my freed cock bounces out, I begrudgingly mutter to its sleepy head, “Been way too long since I’ve made use of you, buddy.” 

Leaping on my bed I stretch naked limbs over the goose down and enjoy my yawning muscles.

So, as a character, this guy likes run-on sentences, and he’s naked. He also seems a little narcissistic, so I don’t know why he doesn’t look at his ceiling mirror, only next to it. Astigmatism, possibly. 

But her threatening letters are definitely better writing than her books. I’m sure there’s some sort of living to be made from that fact.

Anyway, the actual cancellation of the “cocky” trademark may take weeks, because of the dazzling speed of bureaucracy, but the issue, it seems to me, is over and done with. Which is to be celebrated.  

 I’m off to exercise my yawning muscles. Guess they must be in my face, somewhere.

By the way, Jamilla Jaspers reacts to threats real well. Her  book, The Cocky Cowboy is now called, “The Cockiest Cowboy who Ever Cocked“. It’s on Amazon!  

Wicked Wednesday: Maddie’s elegant caning

The previous episode is here

 

I don’t mean that last cane stroke didn’t hurt. It burned like fire. I felt like I was being branded. It was just that… that felt right. There was something sweet there. Something deeply sexual, like it was below my human brain. Something atavistic, like an animal. An animal in love and lust. 

The next two strokes climbed up my thighs. “Nine, Sir. Ten, Sir,” counted Lucy.

I squealed and sobbed again, continuously, no longer trying to control it. But now the sobs celebrated what was happening as much as they protested it. The tenth stroke burned just under the crease of my bottom. I dreaded the moment the cane would land directly of my crease. I knew it would be too much for me.

And I yearned for it, for exactly the same reason.

The next two strokes whipped across my bottom, as low as they could go, just above the crease. I moaned. How could this feel good? How could I take the fear of what was coming? I was learning something, something that changed my life, but I didn’t understand it yet. That need for discipline in my life, to give myself and lower myself to a Master. And to the pain he might give me: I needed that too. But I hadn’t processed that, just yet. It was my first inkling.

“Eleven, Sir. Twelve, Sir.” Was there discomfort in Lucy’s voice now? She knew she was next. She was a softer girl than me. 

“Good girl, Maddie. Now, I want you to keep your legs straight. And bend a littlke tighter for these last two strokes”

“Yes, Sir.”I obeyed, quickly.

“Good girl.You look so neat, so very elegant, my darling.”

“Oh, Sir.” I felt so exposed, so completely his. 

“Good girl. You always look perfect for me, my little one.”

I wanted to break and cover him with kisses. I turned my toes inwards, just to expose myself a little more.

I hope he thought my pussy was elegant, too. There was silence, while he looked at me.

At last he said, “Brace yourself, Maddie. I want you to take these two in silence, because they’re not part of the twelve strokes. You know where they’re going, and you know they’ll hurt you. So be a good, brave girl for me. I rely on you, to show Lucy an example, You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes Sir. I’ll be…” I was going to say ‘good’. I said, “quiet.”

“Good girl.” I smiled, despite myself. The next two strokes came hard and fast, only about five seconds between them. That crease is some of my softest skin. I wanted to wail, and jump across the floor holding my arse. But somehow I could stand it, though part of me knew they were the worst strokes of all. Another part of me felt so good, that I was so strong, so controlled and so much his. 

“Thirteen, Sir. Forteen, Sir.” 

“Good girl, Lucy. And Maddie, you’ve been a brave, beautiful good girl. I’m very proud of you. But don’t move, little Maddie.” 

I said, “Ohh, Sir.” It wasn’t a protest. I felt so His. I was His property. And that made me feel so floaty. 

“Lucy, put two fingers in your Mistress’s pussy, girl.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

A moment later I felt her touch me, then enter and explore. This was more intimate touch that we’d ever had. But we both wanted it; Sir had made it happen. I sighed as Lucy probed and stroked inside me, and my whole body shook a little, with the emotion of it.

“Now withdraw, Lucy. Hold your hand up.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

There was a pause. Sir said, “Nicely sopping. Good girl, Maddie.” He sounded so happy with me. “Lucy, clean your fingers now. With your mouth, girl. It’s time you tasted your Mistress.”

“Yes, Sir.”

A second later Sir was holding me by my shoulders. He helped me up. I turned and embraced him. God, I wanted him to fuck me then and there. But he just cuddled me.

He kissed my forehead, and when I dared look at him, my mouth. I was held in his arms, my ass burning, I heard him say, “Good girl. My girl. You deserved that, but you were very brave, and the slate’s wiped clean. You’re my very good girl again.”

There were tears streaming down my cheeks, now I was upright. I didn’t ask for his permission; I kissed him, and I looked at Lucy, warning her to stay back, and I took his cock in my hand. He kissed me back, and we rocked together for a while. 

But at last Sir put his hands on my shoulders and set me back a pace. “Now, I’m going to need your help, Maddie, while I give Lucy her first caning. I think you’re going to enjoy the way you help.”  

 

The next episode is here

E[lust] 106: Hotter than the fires of Kilimanjaro!

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Photo courtesy of submiss34f

Welcome to Elust 106

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #107? Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Orgasms Save Me From Myself

Charlie’s Bar

I’m Not Ready to Love My Body

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Letters and Lonely Hearts

I Want to Curve and Ache

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Don’t fear the smear

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Transitioning Sexual Health
Don’t fear the smear
How do you make sex toys accessible?
Having a IUD fitted

Erotic Non-Fiction

Xebec
Do You Still Know How?
Old Style Porn
From behind
These Feet
Trust

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

You, Me, Her

Erotic Fiction

Orinoco Flow
Bastinado
Shivers
Spanking (A Vignette)
An Evening Out
Face To Face
In Lucy’s hands
More than Friends: Pushing Limits

Writing About Writing

The Importance of a Muse to This Writer

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Pegging and Prostate
Dating: Hope vs Delusion
Going Deeper
Conviction

Poetry

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Blogging

My secret identity: a sex-blogging superhero

Elust

Masturbation Monday: The lovers joined

  • Note: The previous episode is here.

If you’d like to go back to the beginning and read the whole thing, it starts here. I’ve linked all the episodes so it’s easy to click backwards or forwards to the previous, or the next, episode. 

Stephanie was on her knees, her face and breasts pressed on the carpet, getting fucked. I was on my knees, losing skin on the carpet, fucking her. Neither of us cared about knees, or any skin, except where we merged, my cock in her cunt, slick wet skin sliding together, hard and fast.

That took up most of our awareness. We’d both wanted this for eight years: it was worth savouring, though we’d passed the point at which we could take things slowly. Stephanie mewed, her head turning from side to side, as we fucked. My stomach and hips pounded her upturned, submissively presented ass.

Not that Stephanie was submissive in any full time sense. She and I had fallen into a dom/sub pattern because sexual dominance comes naturally to me, and she was in the mood to go along with me. I smacked her arse again, with that thought, and she yelped, pleasured, and sighed. But she was not quiet after that spank: she was approaching her orgasm, and that pleasured yelp repeated, and then became a long, continuous wail. 

She said, “Harder! Harder!” I smacked her again, hard, across the sides of her buttocks, and then again, though I knew that wasn’t what she meant. I also rode her harder, pushing her ass down to the floor with the weight and pressure of my body against her.

Eventually she collapsed forward, her body at full stretch on the carpet, my cock still in her, pushing and pumping as hard as I could. She made one, brief, very high-pitched noise and then was silent: her whole body shuddered. 

My girl had come. I could have come in her, at that moment, but I decided I needed to hold myself in reserve. I slowly rode her, while she gasped for air, post-orgasmic and blissed, and tried to push her ass up again. I put my hand in her hair, and turned her face so she could see me. I leaned down and kissed her neck, and cheek. 

Stephanie smiled. “That took us a while, didn’t it?” 

“Yeah. Should have happened eight years ago. We were just always busy with someone else. Or at least one of us always was.” I moved my cock in her, as it was too good and sweet not to, and I loved the feel of her soft but very muscular ass under me. 

Stephanie’s belting would be hot, and, for the moment, completely hypothetical…

Stephanie nodded. This was true. It was good we’d found the time. And that Maires, my current girlfriend, had allowed it to happen. But she said, “Would you really have taken your belt to my arse? If I’d pushed back, and taken your cock into me?”

“Oh god, yes. Hard, girl.” That wasn’t really true. I’d made the threat because it had seemed sexy in the moment, and then been relieved not to have to carry it out.

But once you’ve started down that path, you follow through, if tested in what you judge is a consenting way. Like Stephanie’s. She laughed briefly. “Heh. Thought so. You’ve got a… reputation, you know. Pervert.”

“I can’t deny it. But you don’t get to feel the belt, sweetiepie, unless you don’t do as you’re told.”

“What if I said, no?”

“Yeah well, that goes without saying. Er, I mean, if you say no, there’s no go. Anyway, I’d like very much to warm your arse up with my belt, before I fuck you. Some time. If you feel like it.”

I said that because my cock, still inside her, was likely to shrink if we talked too much about careful things. But saying the equivalent of, “I want to whip you”; and thinking about her perfect ass presented for that, as well as for the fucking that always follows any application of the belt: that got me hardening again. She noticed, and waggled her hips.

“Yeah. I can tell you’d like it.”

“I think you’ll like it too. But you do get a veto. Obviously.”

“Well, we’ll see.” 

“Sweet Stephanie-girl, I don’t really want to pull out of you. Ever, really. But I would like to carry you to bed. And put something on your knees.” Mine were starting to protest, red, scratched and possibly close to blistering. Hers had taken an even harder assault than mine. 

“Uh huh. That’s reasonable. So long as you’re back in me, once we’re in bed.” 

So, slowly, and with a certain amount of panting, because it really can be a hard thing to do, I withdrew. I rolled Stephanie onto her back, and reached under her shoulders and knees. She’s a strong girl, but not heavy. So I had an armful of warm, laughing, naked Stephanie, when the door opened. 

It was Maires. She had her jeans on, but the bra she’d been wearing under her tshirt was gone. She looked radiant, glowing: I guess the guy with the wooden toucan on his shoulder had done well by her.

She said, “Hello, beautiful lovers. I heard the end of that; it sounded lovely.”

Stephanie said nothing. She looked at me, not Maires. She’d agreed to have Maires join us, but in the moment what mattered was that it was so far outside her experience.

So Maires spoke to her: “Stephanie, darling, would you mind if I join you two?” 

The next episode is here.